


Come Away, Come Away

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2010-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam and Tommy meet for the first time.  AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Away, Come Away

Once, long ago, when the world was still a rather quiet place, there lived a man named Thomas. He was liked well enough in his village, kind and soft-spoken as he was, but because he had never married, folks never quite took to him the way they should. Thomas didn't take it personally. He knew he was a bit odd, a bit different from the others. It was all right that they sometimes kept their distance.

Thomas spent most of his nights in the village's small, crowded tavern. He sat in a corner and played his guitar, soft, sweet sounds to accompany a ballad, or hard strumming to support a raucous folk song, or once in a while, late at night when most of the patrons had stumbled toward home, a twisting, dancing melody of his own composition, one that made him think of the moon and the stars and mountains over a distant horizon.

He was happy with his life, such as it was. He made enough playing music to live on – just barely – and the barmaids would bring him beer in his own special mug and flirt with him and play with his hair, and he'd go home with a good ache in his fingers and a slight buzz of alcohol in his head and only just a touch of loneliness.

It was in the tavern that he heard the first stories about the show. Spring had just started to bloom, warm weather and melting snow making travel possible again, and this show was very much a traveling show. As the story went, a band of gypsies had appeared overnight, as if out of nowhere. They moved from town to town, a city of brightly-colored tents springing up in mere hours and disappearing again the next day. No one knew what kind of show it was, exactly, but it was said to leave absolute madness in its wake.

The warmth of spring was slowly inching toward the heat of summer when the next bits of the story began to trickle in, carried by travelers and the summer breeze, and they were strange indeed. It was a musical show, of a sort, but none like Thomas – or anyone – had ever heard before. It was said there was a man with a magic guitar, one that sounded like lightning and screaming and made you want to scream right back. And with him traveled another man, one with two voices – one of an angel, and one of a devil – and a face that looked like both at once.

The reactions of the others listening to the story ranged from disinterest to skepticism to downright fear. But Thomas, well...he couldn't hear enough. He started to make a habit of striking up conversations with any travelers passing through, always finding a way to work in the rumors of the traveling music show. And what he heard was fascinating: a man whose drums sounded like thunder and kept beating in your chest even after the show was long over. A woman, almost never seen, who could produce any sound she wanted just through the touch of her fingers. And a strange group of beautiful creatures, tall and thin and flexible, who wore next to nothing and moved like snakes and sin.

Thomas grasped at every piece of rumor and hearsay he could get, and he could hardly contain his excitement when he heard that the show was moving in the direction of his little village. Every week brought it closer, and finally, on the eve of Midsummer, the gypsies arrived. Cart after cart came down the road, all heavy with canvas-covered bundles. Thomas watched from a distance, his guitar slung across his back, and thought about going up to talk to them, ask them about the show. He never did.

The tents sprang up, just as Thomas had imagined they would, a large one in the center for performing and several smaller ones for living in. The villagers grumbled among themselves, stodgy and set in their quiet ways...but they too watched closely for the night the show would open. At last, a carriage came, a fancy gold-painted one with curtained windows and feathered headpieces for the horses, and Thomas knew that inside were the people he'd heard so much about.

That evening was the hottest of the year, everyone sweltering. The air was heavy and sticky, making clothes and hair cling to wet skin. It should have been a sleepy day, a day for staying indoors and moving as little as possible. But instead, the town was humming with the energy of the unknown, of the new, and Thomas just as much as the rest of them, if not more. For a moment, he thought he might bring his guitar to the show...but no, there was no magic in his instrument. He would only make a fool of himself. Best to attend and stay in the back and watch from afar.

The tent was filled with strange light. Thomas looked for the source, and saw gypsy children with cunningly rigged lanterns, angling pointed beams of green and blue through the air. He reached out to touch one, watching as his fingers passed right through, momentarily taking on the color of the light, and a smile lit his face. It was wonderful, and he wished he had the money to try and buy one or the courage to sneak one away – it would have looked so nice in his small, dark cottage.

People were standing and jostling at each other everywhere in the crowded tent – it seemed as if the whole village had turned out for the show, even the most adamant naysayers. Thomas would never have been able to see but for the slight incline of the ground beneath his feet. The gypsies had chosen their site well.

He took a position at the back of the tent and fidgeted nervously from one foot to the other, hoping that the show would live up to its reputation. He didn't quite know what he would do if he left disappointed. The future looked rather the same as the past, seasons slowly turning, living the same life and playing the same songs to the same people day in and day out. For once, Thomas had the chance to see something truly different, and he was hoping as hard as he could that it would be good enough to last him...well, for a very long time indeed.

The sun went down and light faded from the world, leaving only those colored beams and the lanterns hanging around the edges of the tent to fend off the darkness. A smell like incense floated through the air, sweet and spicy, making Thomas light-headed, and the crowed hushed, murmuring and keeping their eyes on the open area in front.

And suddenly, a voice pierced the muggy air, clear and low, pure and beautiful, singing a lullaby so deeply ingrained in Thomas's memory that it made him sigh aloud, and the crowd around him sighed as well, and the murmuring disappeared. He closed his eyes, the better to listen, and slowly the voice began to climb, taking him up and up, until he thought it couldn't go any higher...and then it did. He swayed in time with the music, letting it carry him away, and it was freeing and calming and possibly the prettiest sound Thomas had ever heard.

He was half-asleep when the scream tore a ragged scar through the air, and he almost jumped out of his skin, and his eyes shot open...and there, standing on the stage, was a man who looked like a pirate out of a story, except that his hair was somehow standing straight up in the air, and in his hands was the strangest guitar Thomas had ever seen. It wasn't made of wood at all, but what looked like metal, shining in the colored light. And instead of making the soft, plucked sounds Thomas was so familiar with, it was making that screaming sound, loud and jarring, just this side of unpleasant.

The guitar settled into a rhythmic pattern, repeating it over and over until it caught in Thomas's head and the crowd of villagers – the ones who hadn't covered their ears and stormed out – was swaying in time again. He moved a bit closer as the crowd thinned just slightly, trying for a better view, and so it happened that he wasn't looking up when the people around him let out a gasp and a _real_ scream forced its way through the sound of the guitar. Only it wasn't, quite, because there was music to it, skill and talent and melody, and Thomas felt it touch something deep and primal inside him. Struggling through the wall of bodies in front of him, he finally found a clear view and got a good look at the singer...and felt his heart skip a beat.

He looked like a gypsy, and yet not like one at all. Where their skin was tanned dark, his was pale, almost glowing in the dancing light. He was built bigger and taller than most of the gypsy folk, who were by and large a wiry, lean people. He was draped in scarves and black silk and silver charms and feathers, just as they were. But his face...his face looked almost inhuman. His eyes were shockingly blue, staring out from rings of deep black, and his lips were painted a dusky pink, and his skin sparkled like sunlight on clear water.

Thomas couldn't tear his gaze away. Around him, he sensed changes in the light, and there were other bodies moving around the singer, and other instruments joining in, but none of it mattered. He was transfixed, watching the man's features move and change into different expressions, listening to his voice settle into something more approaching the kind of singing he knew, though it still retained a character entirely its own.

And suddenly the show was over, and the villagers were shaking themselves and milling about and heading toward home, the gypsy children running from person to person with upturned hats, collecting coins. Thomas looked around and saw that it was full-dark and wondered when exactly that had happened. He turned back toward the front of the tent, hoping for one last glimpse of the singer. But no one was there, just empty space, the heavy fabric of the tent waving gently as if to signify their passing.

The tent was almost empty when Thomas finally realized that it was time to go home. The show had been amazing, everything he'd ever hoped for and more, strange and wonderful and over far, far too quickly, a spectacle to dream about for long months and years to come. But as he turned to go, the thought of going back to his life, back to lonely days that tasted of boredom...it was repulsive, almost sickening to him. How could he go back, after seeing such a thing? How could he ever be satisfied with such a life _now,_ after all that?

The children were starting to move around now, gathering up loose and lost things from the ground, beginning to douse the lights and pack them away, and he quickly made his way out of the tent, not wanting to get in their way. But try as he might, Thomas couldn't quite get himself to leave. He hung around the entrance to the tent for a while, trying to look as if he were waiting on someone – a lover, perhaps. Then, when it was clear that he was the last villager in sight, he began to creep around toward the back of the tent, following its curved wall. Just one last look, one last perfect glimpse of the strange, hypnotizing man, and that would have to be enough.

He was there. Oh gods, he was there, standing under one blue-purple lantern, smoking something long and thin and fragrant. Tendrils of smoke curled their way through graceful fingers and between elegant lips, and snaked away into the darkened sky. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, as if he were praying, or dreaming. Thomas froze in place, watching, and he couldn't breathe for the sheer beauty of the scene.

Thomas was just wondering how to best steal away when the man spoke, not moving, not opening his eyes. "You there," he said, and his voice was higher than Thomas had expected, so different from any of the voices he'd heard singing tonight.

Thomas couldn't answer, his mind suddenly a terrified blank. The other man opened his eyes and pinned him with a stare, and Thomas shivered at the attention.

"What's your name?" the singer asked, and Thomas took a shallow breath and thought hard. He knew this one, he did....

"Thomas Joseph Ratliff. Sir," he said, all the words rushing out together.

The other man laughed, high and bubbly, and his face broke into a friendly grin. Suddenly, the vise-grip around Thomas's midsection loosened, and he could breathe again.

"Thomas Joseph Ratliff, huh? Hmm...no, I don't think so. I'm gonna call you Tommy. Tommy Joe. Nice to meet you, Tommy Joe. I'm Adam."

As Adam spoke the words, Thomas felt something click into place, a rightness, a oneness with himself that he had never felt before. And from that moment on, he was Tommy, his full name left behind, and it felt momentous and important, life-changing.

Tommy reached out and shook Adam's hand, and it was warm where he'd been holding his smoke, and smooth, and he didn't want to let go. Adam was smiling at him, a knowing-things smile, and Tommy wanted to ask what it was that Adam knew, but he couldn't get the words to sound right in his head.

"So did you enjoy the show, Tommy Joe?" Adam asked, and took another drag on his smoke.

Tommy nodded so hard he almost lost his balance, and Adam laughed that happy laugh again. "It was the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. You sound like...and the guitar...I've never heard a guitar sound like that before," he said.

Adam came closer, and he was looking at him with a serious expression now. "You're a musician, aren't you? What do you play?" he asked.

"Um...I, um...I play guitar. In the tavern, over the hill there," Tommy replied, gesturing vaguely toward the village, still shivering under Adam's intense gaze.

Adam nodded. "Come with me," he said, and took Tommy's hand, leading him toward one of the smaller tents. Tommy followed wordlessly, putting up no resistance. This was mad, completely mad, but his heart was pounding and his blood was rushing and there was a thrill in his spirit that couldn't be denied.

The tent was dark, and Tommy could barely make out the rows and rows of instruments filling every corner. He looked around for the metal guitar that he'd seen during the show, but it was nowhere to be found.

Adam seemed to read his mind. "Sorry. Monte sleeps with his baby. Can't say I blame him," he said. "Now, pick one. Closest to what you usually play would be best."

Tommy glanced up at Adam quickly. "What? But..."

"Go on." Adam gestured to the row of guitars. "Show me what you can do."

Slowly, Tommy looked down at the instruments, and his eyes eventually fell on one that seemed very similar to his own guitar. He picked it up reverently, feeling the weight of it, the touch of the strings on his fingers. The strap settled comfortably around his neck, and the wood warmed to his body, and yes, this was the one. He looked back up at Adam.

"What do you want me to play?" he asked.

"Anything you like, Tommy Joe. Anything at all."

Adam closed his eyes and waited, and Tommy paused a moment, making a pretense of deciding. But he knew what he wanted to play for Adam, had maybe known it before he even knew who Adam was.

The melody flowed through his fingers cleaner and more evocative than ever before, telling its story of far-away places and adventures to come, and Tommy closed his eyes and let himself drift away on the song. Somewhere along the way, Adam began to hum, then to sing, picking up the melody and adding words of his own, and though Tommy could never remember them later, he knew in the moment that they were just right.

The last notes of the song floated away into the night, and Tommy opened his eyes, waiting for a reaction. Adam met his gaze, and he was smiling again, a smirk that was all in the lips and eyebrows, and it made Tommy want to do very wicked things.

"Want to see some magic?" Adam asked, and Tommy could only nod, feeling chosen, special, hardly able to believe that this night was not just a long, vivid dream.

Adam knelt down in front of Tommy and placed his hands on the guitar, bending his head so that his forehead rested flush against it. Tommy blushed and stood his ground and tried not to move, watching. Adam was whispering something, strange words that were in no language Tommy had ever heard. Then he pulled back a bit, and held out his hands before his lips, palms open, and blew a gentle breath over them. A sparkling dust flew off of Adam's hands and onto Tommy's guitar, coating every part of it in shining golden light for just a moment before disappearing. Then Adam hoisted himself back onto his feet and brushed his hands off, standing back.

"Go on," he said with a grin. "Give it a try."

Tommy swallowed and looked down at the guitar, like it was something strange and wild that might bite him. Tentative, he plucked just one string. The sound it made was different from what it had been before, but also quite unlike the screaming guitar he'd heard during the show. It was a deep, round, rich tone, one that made him think of the slow ringing of a very large bell, or perhaps the lowing of cattle, if their call was refined and perfected and smoothed into music. Except it wasn't like either of those things at all, really. It was something completely new. And it was wonderful. He played a few strains of his melody again, and then he grinned up at Adam, excited as he had not been since he was a very young child.

"You like it?" Adam asked, his face oh so pleased.

"I love it," Tommy said, caressing the guitar tightly and hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to let go.

A long moment passed, deliciously tense.

Then Adam held out a hand again. "Come away. Come away with me, Tommy Joe. Come play with me, and I'll sing to you, and together we'll show them something they'll never forget."

Tommy didn't stop to think. Yes and yes and yes came spilling off his lips, and then his hand was in Adam's, and the comforting weight of the guitar – _his_ guitar – was still pressing into his body, and he _must_ have been dreaming, because it was all too good to be true.

Adam led him out of the tent and into the open, and Tommy took a deep breath of the night air, finally starting to cool, and looked up at the stars, and eventually let his gaze settle on the horizon. And Adam came up behind him and settled his head on Tommy's shoulder, whispering into his ear about all the places they would go and things they would see, things that Adam didn't have a name for and Tommy couldn't even imagine. And he leaned back into Adam, feeling the warm, solid mass of him, and just for that one precious moment, all was right with the world.

"Come away, come away..." Adam whispered, and took his hand, and Tommy, as he always would, followed.


End file.
